Dead Easy
by Settely
Summary: being the big shot, Alexander is supposed to be a perfect heterosexual man, Roxana an obedient wife and Hephaestion the best friend ever imaginable; why exactly won't that work, nobody knows; modern-themed AU, Alexander/Hephaestion, imposed Roxana/Alex


**_A/N: A small series to keep my mind working._**

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><p><strong><em>If this is the way it ends <em>**

**_Don't tell me it's meaningless _**

**_There'll be no compromise _**

**_We fall in we too shall rise _**

**_You held me and taught me how _**

**_I think I am ready now _**

**_If this is the way it ends _**

**_This is the way it's meant to be_**

_Landon Pigg, „The Way It Ends"_

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><p><strong>Chapter one<strong>

Roxana and Alexander are beautiful.

Her hair shines like dark diamonds, carbonado if Alexander remembers the name correctly. She glances at him with a soft glint in the eyes and licks her cherry coloured lips slowly. Her skin shimmers under the dimmed yellowish lights with some lavender scented oil, looking even darker than its usual Mocha brown. Her dress is shorter than those he saw her wearing before, zippers casting rainbowish patterns onto the silky black material embracing her soft curves. There are flowery and geometrical trinkets glittering from across the long midnight blue train that lays crumbled under her feet and laces bend across her enlarged, sweat covered breasts.

City's tallest building illuminate themselves behind her, telling different stories of pleasures and fortune awaiting the bravest ones. Or maybe the most foolish ones as well for doesn't Fortune favour this combination the best?

He is standing all proud and tall beside the door which he has just opened. His suit is tarry black and a matching thin mat tie blemishes a perfectly white shirt. He doesn't look at her, as if engrossed in his thoughts and his wheat blond hair reflect the light like one of the mirrors this room is full of.

They are like marble statues enchanted forever to look at their Babylon covering beneath their feet with noises, dances and pagan reverence.

It has been so cold in this room while she was reading yet another book on economy but now that he came, it's wonderfully warm once again.

Interesting.

Roxana winks at him, relaxing further onto many cushions laying behind her arched flirtatiously back. She has lot of free time on her hands nowadays and nothing can really be more curious than the great Alexander coming all the way up to her rooms. Wonderful.

"I see you come here see me," her heavy Hispanic accent cuts through the words but the voice smoothes everything, giving a low and steady rhythm to her throaty whisper. She looks mildly interested at Alexander with her eyes half-opened, combing through her thick wavy hair with one of her hands. Her teeth are dazzling white and she nods swiftly, "come close, Iskander."

Her beady bracelets rattle on her feet when she moves her legs, making some room for him on the sofa she's lining on. He glances at them for a moment, allured by the sound but doesn't move an inch from the spot at the feet of the door he's been standing at. Her smile fades a bit at that but neither Roxana, nor Alexander say anything. Silence stretches on and she no longer views herself as the one with the upper hand in whatever conversation that might break out in the end.

Finally, Alexander flickers his gaze from the floor onto her face and for a moment, Roxana doesn't know what to say. His eyes are hollow and brow creases with unease when he comes closer to her.

"You saw him lastly, didn't you?" His voice is steady but she senses the ice behind the quietness momentarily, too accustomed to it already. She pulls herself up, crossing legs and staring defiantly, her lids dropping bitterly. So it isn't about her at all once again.

When exactly has it ever been about her?

Alexander's perfumes are strong, tobacco smoke mixing heavily with jasmine, sandalwood and a sprinkle of golden leaves, making her head spin just like the moment their eyes met for the first time. She chose this fragrance for him herself, after their first night together. At first, it was sweet and warm but with each passing month she's kept on spending trapped in this big cold building called their home, Roxana started noticing the bitterness and unhappiness enchanted in the small bottle that seemed to summarise her husband clearer than she ever could have thought possible.

His hands are cold on her temples when he sits down beside her, the whole asphyxiating stuffiness of the room instantly forgotten.

"What have you told him this time, Roxana?" Alexander brings their foreheads gently together, his feverish breath tasting of old whiskey. He closes his eyes and Roxana doesn't know any longer who's the more pitiable one from their duo. Alexander is shaking slightly but she doesn't have the strength neither to embrace him, nor to push him away, not yet at least. His breath hitches, "I can't find him anywhere."

She can't remember her last encounter with that poor excuse of an architect, the almighty Hephaestion Amyntoros but Alexander hooks his arms round her and whispers something she can't understand even if her life depended on it (who knows, maybe it does, this very minute?) and that doesn't make things any less fuzzy in her head.

"I know not," She doesn't feel ashamed at the annoyance and venom toning her snarl. Whatever she says will fall on deaf ears in the end, even if she started cursing everybody this very second. "Hephaestion your friend, not my. Look for him you, Iskander. I have no ideas."

Her voice is ice cold but they know their game far too well by now to take anything too seriously. It's just a sword fight played out with cheap words, breaths and nicely toned legs, she learnt it all by heart. Her ankles hook themselves round his abdomen the moment Alexander wants to push her away from himself, "You are one to have bring all of that upon Amyntoros, you that done. I am your wife-to-be, Alexander, not wench some may think.

'I need be respected, I need freedom, I need be one in your heart. Why, Alexander? What have I did wrongly not deserve that?"

"Fool, you won't play me like that harp of yours any longer." Alexander chuckles humourlessly, untangling himself from between Roxana's legs. He pinches skin on her elbows when she doesn't want to let go of him, bending her knees awkwardly just to have him stay. She hisses, looking openly at his face once again.

Alexander doesn't cry often. Maybe it's because his father has always told him to toughen up, forget about trivial tales his mother kept on feeding him, dreaming of him becoming a well-respected businessman, one who'd outdo his ancestors easily. Maybe because boys just don't cry in this world or his outbursts of untamed feelings have always been reserved only for special occasions. Even after being with him for more than three years now, Roxana still doesn't know the answer to one of the biggest questions in her life.

Now his cheeks are tear-stricken and hair is in total mess, tousled and ruffled. He doesn't look like his usual self, the great Alexander, Alexander the Great, the honourable head of staff of one of the biggest companies in Europe and the world. For a moment, she doesn't recognise him in that mask of a face, in those hollow-eyed gazes, realisation stricken lips.

"You know very well that if it wasn't for the child, we wouldn't be together at all. Ah, let's not forget about your father's company as well, dear!" His laugh echoes against the walls and Roxana knows that it's one of those few times she has always feared the most. She starts gathering her dress round herself, intending to run away but his hand claps itself tightly onto her left wrist. His breath is foul onto her face when he shuffles nearer once again, nearly breaking her feet with his weight, "I never wanted any woman in my house, Roxana love, nor do I wish so today-"

"You told you love me, you told when we met! Was it a lie, Alexander? Is it all lie?" Her yells are low-pitched and echo among the rooms but Roxana doesn't care. Their game seems to get to its end and she won't go down without a fight, even if the fight doesn't involve any worthy prises any longer. It has never been about winning him that way or another and this thought isn't new to her at all. It has kept on gawking at her head, coming back, going away and so on, during sleepless night.

That one moment, when their eyes met and everything went silent, was stage-managed from the start. He came and conquered and she was a good reminder of that. Coming and conquering, tying knots around Europe and perhaps then, farther lying lands, who knows? Her dance, her movements and his dropped-lidded looks. It was anything but natural, anything but healthy and Roxana knew that from the start.

She whispers, when all thoughts grow silent and there is only his mad with grief face, not knowing why, begging herself to stop; the game must stay preserved, it is the only thing that matters, nothing else. Her conscience seems not to listen, though, "Alexander, tell me. Please, tell me truth just one time. Please..."

"Where did you tell him to go this time? To a bar? To some cheap motel?" He doesn't even try to look bothered by her pleas, desperation gathering in his eyes. She moans with exasperation, bringing her head onto her knees but Alexander quickly snatches her wrists once again, "He's not here any longer, Roxana. His things are but I can't find him anywhere-"

"Why should it my concern?" She's furious by now but bitterness doesn't leave her all that willingly. Her eyes match now Alexander's with their redness and slowly, swelling of the tissue as well. She stares at his face with disgust, yanking her hands free with ease, "Said I not seen him today. Maybe he tired of you and your playing as well?"

He looks as if she just slapped him. His fingers encircle her hair once again and before she can back off, he yanks sharply, bringing their faces closer once again. Her hiss of pain sobers him a bit but he doesn't let go, whispering with his eyes closed, "Just like my mother. You two would make such a great pair if she didn't want a grandson so much, such a shame indeed..."

He stands up, looking lost. In a few steps, he's beside the door in less than an eye-blink.

"Your mother right, Alexander, if you could, you lived in your fantasy world from books," Roxana can't help but giggle madly, everything mixing up once again, just like every time she confronts that coldness and (perhaps?) reality. He doesn't turn around at her voice, his shoulders tensing up and eyes looking at the floor. She feels tears spilling down her cheeks but it doesn't matter anymore, "but in the books princes marry princesses, not other friendly princes!"

The slam of the door is blissful and Roxana smiles a lopsided grin.


End file.
